Love, by its very nature, is unworldly, and it is for this reason rather than its rarity that it is not only apolitical but antipolitical, perhaps the most powerful of all antipolitical forces.
— Hannah Arendt
Did we not walk through the woods side by side, our hearts bursting with as much light as there was shining through the trees?
Did we not meet on an airplane, our ears popping, but speaking louder to each other in Spanish about literature and South American poetry?
Did you not put your arm around me for the first time while walking down Crosby Street?
Did we not kiss with the Empire State building watching us?
Did we not grow up together, under the same sky? Are we not growing old together now, walking the same earth?
Did we not run through the leaves together, marveling at the sound?
Did we not break bread together, bandages on fingers and coffee in hand?
Did I not think of you while watching the city skyline from a distance; the shadowy outlines of Manhattan coming to life in the morning after shedding itself from the mist and fog of the night?
Did you not surprise me with flowers one spring day?
Did you not disappoint me with your absence one summer night?
Did we not wake at the same time to hear the owl’s song?
Did you not send me a quiet message-in-a-bottle: “The opposite of faith is not doubt: It is certainty. That might be the opposite of love, as well.”
Did you not sit on the other side of the door while I was weeping, your voice reaching for mine?
Did you not sing to me as I fell asleep?
Did we not stand, a river apart, wondering how the other was sleeping?
Are we not countries apart now, thinking of the same thing?
Are we not all of different skin colors and religions and even political beliefs, yet marveling all the same at these little details of love?
Did any revolution not begin with hope? Did any winter not end with spring? Did any change not begin with doubt? Did any world not begin with love?
i keep a gratitude journal, and it’s separate from my main daily journal (which i lovingly call “The Main Squeeze” on my journaling app, so that i don’t get confused).
i don’t post in the gratitude journal as often as i’d like to, but here are some real entries (from the past 3 weeks) for things i’m grateful for!
waking up early to do yoga on the rooftop, facing you.
r. telling me “hey rose, your ‘sad state’ is better than most people’s normal state :)”
met matt damon in my dreams last night, what?
the feeling when i’ve slept with my hair wet and i let it down in the morning and the curls fall everywhere around my face, like pillowy clouds
c. telling me that i’m his “sriracha soulmate”
s. sending me the menu of osteria francescana,which has lovely watercolors and now i am dreaming of going to italy one day and eating there and meeting massimo
changed my work chat dock icon to a dancing Hobbes and it changed my life
when doorman exclaims as i go downstairs on my way to work after rolling out of bed and throwing random clothes on at 8 in the morning: “you look so incredibly beautiful! tell me what your secret is! you don’t even wear makeup!” me blushing and shaking my head.
the possible rain, the certainty that it will pass
the man playing the accordion on the subway platform that brought tears to my eyes
the 25 cent vending machine at work
mom and dad practicing juggling for exercise
t. telling me after reading my blog posts, and me being self-conscious of their recent length & subject: “they always seem too short, when you are the one writing.”
Many tragedies have already occurred this year – both in my personal realm and out in the larger realms of this country and the world. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and I try to celebrate my family every day (even from afar): steeping myself in gratitude for their love and hope for their well-being. This Sunday is Father’s Day, which always falls on or close to my birthday.
* * *
When my sister and I were kids, my mom would give us pots and pans to bang on like drums. In the living room we had free reign to hold big spoons up like microphones and giggle while shaking our little behinds. Mom would laugh, telling us how we were so good at “扭屁股” as toddlers.
My father listened to all the songs you’d expect a dad from his generation to listen to. I remember groaning in the mornings when I’d hear Broadway musical songs start blasting through the thin walls. I’d cover my ears, fully knowing that this was his subtle morning wake up call. He always preferred to have Rodgers and Hammerstein take the heat of a teenager’s wrath at getting up early. As a side effect, I learned all the lyrics to “The King and I,” “Sound of Music,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” He would put Peter, Paul and Mary cassette tapes on repeat, and he made us attend guitar classes to learn folk songs.
Yet there was always a chasm that I couldn’t cross to get close to him: the stereotypical strict and stoic “Asian dad” that sternly directed me to the collection of World Book Encyclopedias rather than answer my questions himself. Like the way he placed Broadway musical songs in between us and him, I felt that he wedged his career in there too. In lieu of “I love you,” he would declare variations of “Go study harder.” I was terrified of him, not because he was mean, but because he was always the strong, strict silent type. And I wanted to be perfect for him, I never wanted to let him down. I thought that you were supposed to be terrified of your dad. Maybe as a kid that’s the only way you know how to feel when you’re in awe.
He always worked incredibly hard to help the people around him. I didn’t see him as much as I hoped because he’d often leave for work before I woke up and return after I had already gone to bed.
A few years ago I went to a restaurant in Houston’s Chinatown for lunch. The restaurant owner came up to our table and started chatting with me in Mandarin. When he found out the name of my father he bowed to me out of respect. I stood there in shock. Because I rarely interacted with my father outside of his strict requests for me to behave or do better in school, I was unspeakably moved at how revered my father is in his community; like a king, even.
So one of my fondest memories is a big cliché, but it’s a cliché because it matters. Though he often spent more hours at the office than at home, I remember the few occasions during which he would put my tiny toddler feet on his feet to dance around the living room, and sing in a Sinatra-like voice (with a pretty thick Taiwanese accent). Whirling around the room with my handsome dad grinning at me, I felt like a star in a musical.
My parents came to the States knowing almost no English. They met each other here while studying at university in South Carolina. They never had the means or time to take a honeymoon together. I think often with indescribable gratitude about how they have encouraged (or at least silently conceded to) my adventurous curiosity and desire to live my life fully.
Though I’m sure my mom worried endlessly over the years as I went on frequent trips, I have been filled with gratitude that they’ve given me a life that allows me to chase my wanderlust to far corners of the world. My first solo backpacking trip found me in Paris along the Seine, watching people dance the polka to live music. I promised myself I’d learn how to dance it, and my senior year I took a ballroom class and whirled around the room laughing while boys arduously led me into the merry polka steps. I felt determined that one day I’d be able to take my parents to places they were never able to see when they were younger.
In November of last year, I casually texted my mom about where she would like to travel if she had more free time. She loves sitting at home in the living room watching travel shows, and we talked longingly of colorful India. She quickly added, “But first, New York City to see you.” I had to be sneaky because it’s difficult to get my mom to agree for me to do nice things for her. So I covertly booked the plane tickets that night.
My mom (with her well-worn skill of basking in Taiwanese and Texan heat) feared it would be too cold in New York City in December but braved it anyway. My parents’ first time in the city, and luck was on our side as the benevolent sunlight shone down on us. While researching good things to do that weekend, I stumbled upon an incredible coincidence: “The King and I” was playing again in New York City during a Broadway revival tour at the Lincoln Center. We had the amazing opportunity to go together, and I still remember my Dad’s eyes, silently watching in real life this musical he had loved for decades from afar.
Afterwards, I asked him if he enjoyed the show. “Well, it didn’t put me to sleep,” he responded with a smile. Which, in case it isn’t clear, is a compliment of the highest order with my dad.
After watching the musical, on their final day in New York City, I took my parents to Central Park. We walked past the Shakespeare statue, and I talked about how I would dance tango with friends during the summertime in this part of the park. During the “King and I” song “Shall We Dance?” Anna teaches the King how to dance the polka.
I exclaimed to my dad, “Would you like for me to teach you how to polka?”
Even now, the little girl inside of me is a little bit terrified of him. I steeled myself for my dad’s stoic scoff and possible responses: that we were in public, that he was tired, that he’d be embarrassed. To my amazement, he held out his hands to me. I showed him the step slowly. And we danced around the statue, laughing and shuffling as I hummed a polka beat while breathlessly counting “one two three AND, one two three AND” while the sun shone down on us in New York City in December.
